In the silence of my mind's eye
prophetic landscapes flow
until daylight roams
to the boundaries of words.
A doxology in praise of moon nipples.
Nightingales sing hymns
and comets lick black linen night.
A butterfly pursues and plummets
deep into a culvert
to carve graffiti.
A reply in the silence of my mind's eye.
In sleep I listen to words
polished until timeworn.
Soon moonstones lengthen their vines
and ricochet a night botany.
In myth's memory I rise in dreams
to walk past cockleburs
catching on my cuffs.
Keeping my distance I join
in a fugue for flower-eaters,
forage for cinnamon fern,
keep vigil until all that is left
is day and exposure to biography.
Day 8 Poetic Asides prompt